My fingers have not itched with such regret, or ferocity in some time. The message is clear, and yet the words are illusive.  it's like a puzzle with its pieces scattered across the dirty floor.  They're there, if i have the desire and motivation to look.  But the fear paralyzes me before i can touch the pen to paper, one what if condemning my fate.  What if it's not the answer i had hoped? Do i want to know?